


As Bright as the Sun and as Calm as the Moon

by JDylah_da_Kylah



Series: Hope Was A Word, Just A Glimmer Of The Blade [4]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Jedi Apprentice Series - Jude Watson & Dave Wolverton, Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Celibacy, Complicated Relationships, Depends on how you look at it, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Ethical Dilemmas, Everyone Needs A Hug, F/M, Forbidden Love, Force Bond (Star Wars), Force Ghost Bant Eerin, Force Ghost Qui-Gon Jinn, Friendship/Love, Gen, Guilt, Headcanon, Interspecies Awkwardness, M/M, Master & Padawan Relationship(s), Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Canon, Self-Hatred, Self-Reflection, The Dark Side of the Force, Underage Sexual Experimentation, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-05-08
Packaged: 2020-01-31 07:51:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18586951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JDylah_da_Kylah/pseuds/JDylah_da_Kylah
Summary: Among the visages of Obi-Wan's recurrent nightmares--twisted by the Dark Side--is one which not even Qui-Gon can help him lay at peace: the memory of Bant, his dearest friend, and the night that was nearly their destruction--if only for his guilt and shame, and the words his Master never said.Or: "That is no way to live,that is no way to love:Full of fear in your skinand the weakness in giving in."





	As Bright as the Sun and as Calm as the Moon

**Author's Note:**

> I recently wrapped up re-reading Jude Watson and Dave Wolverton's _Jedi Apprentice_ series, and I generally love it. As a kid, when I first devoured the series, my favorite character was Bant Eerin--and I still adore her just as much today. The funny thing is that when I was 11 or 12 (and had no idea what shipping was), I actually hoped that Obi-Wan and Bant would end up together, if he "couldn't" (canonically) be (or end up) with Qui-Gon . . . It made me quite sad to see her be so much removed from Watson's subsequent series, because the dynamic between her and Obi-Wan is something really special. (If she could've gotten the limelight that was given to Siri Tachi, of all characters, I'd have been quite happy.)
> 
> Now that I'm much older and seasoned by the world, I wanted to explore their relationship more . . . and particularly the blurry line between friendship and (unrequited) love, all struck against the awkward reality of the demands of celibacy and adolescence. Plus a heaping dose of self-inflicted guilt, because neither exile nor time are particularly kind to a certain Jedi Master.
> 
>  **To explain the "Underage" tag:** Obi-Wan and Bant are somewhere between 16-18, if I recall the chronology of the _Jedi Apprentice_ series correctly, so if their being on the cusp of adulthood (but not quite of legal age) bothers you, here's a friendly heads up. (Although it's worth noting that they don't actually do "the do".)
> 
> Lyrical inspiration from Ellie Goulding's aptly-named ["Salt Skin"](https://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/elliegoulding/saltskin.html):  
> "That is no way to live,  
> that is no way to love:  
> Full of fear in your skin  
> and the weakness in giving in.
> 
> You're stabbed in the back but you feel no pain.  
> Push the heaviest doors  
> that you can't open.  
> Yeah they tied me up  
> and my body lies still, again.
> 
> You're as bright as the sun  
> and as calm as the moon.  
> I don't know when you'll break  
> but it's gonna be soon.  
> If my will caves in, I'll be in the same  
> boat as you . . ."
> 
> More Obi-Wan / Qui-Gon-centric work coming in the future. Pardon the detour.
> 
> Thoughts and comments are always appreciated! Thank you for reading, and I do hope you enjoy. <3

The world of a river, stretched from horizon to horizon: beneath dark stones flows a current, smooth and easy; a murmur and a song. Obi-Wan lifts his head, inhaling deeply, the mist and cool breeze a simple blessing. What does it matter that it’s someplace he will never stand in flesh—that meditation and the Force have brought him here? That he will come to himself, eventually, and find his skin sticky with sweat, the fetid heat of Tatooine inescapable save for the long hours of a night so full of danger that its chill is no respite at all?

Obediently—such a well-practiced self-correction as to be almost instinctive—he draws his attention back to the present: the world, the seamless spread of water trickling to sky, the dark stones beneath his feet through which shine faint whispers of vermillion. The Force swirls around him—threads of life from Tatooine, including his own, yet reach him here—but there is also the primordial expanse of the cosmos—innumerable threads woven before, the shadows of tapestries to come.

Balanced on his toes, water-washed stones cool against the soles of his bare feet, he reaches for his friend, the silent calling of her name tangled up in promise and rekindled hope.

* * *

It is the chime of her laughter which first comes to him, playing in time with phantom speckles reflected on the river-world from unseen suns or countless stars. Obi-Wan watches the scatterings of light arise, take form, faster than he can fully fathom—and there before him, silver eyes aglow, stands his dearest friend.

* * *

 “Bant—”

A single motion—two beings reflected as one—they reach for each other—slipping on the stones, stumbling through the river, falling into arms flung wide. Here—the only place where he can meet her—she is just as flesh and blood as he. But she will never step into _his_ world, will never be able to walk at his side—as does Qui-Gon—a shimmer half-lost to Tatooine’s suns . . . And for that he buries his head against her shoulder, feeling shudders wrack her frame.

He clings to her with all the strength he has, breathing in the smell of her—deep, primordial: water and salt and warmth. And this time, when he weeps, at last it is for joy.

* * *

 "Did you not think I would keep my promise, friend?” A smile tugs at the corners of her mouth, but something in her eyes betrays her sorrow; it is no personal offense—for Bant has always had a compassionate heart, and becoming one with the Force has done nothing if not amplify her lovingkindness—but it _is_ born from worry. For him.

Obi-Wan meets her smile almost shyly. “I . . . am slow to trust promises these days. But I would never doubt you. Just to _see_ you again . . .” Warily he shakes his head. “And to see you now, when I’m not half-lost to darkness . . .”

Bant places a hand against his chest, feeling the steady staccatto of his heart beneath the suckers on her palms, reminding them both from whence he comes and to what he must return. Webbed fingers slip upwards, then, back across his left shoulder, tracing the joint and the fresh, raised scar of a Force-knit wound.

“Your dreams have been kinder, then?”

“To some extent. Master Qui-Gon is often with me, which . . . helps.”

“Ah!” Bant laughs, taking his hand as they begin to pick their way across the latticework of stones. “You still call him ‘Master’?”

Obi-Wan considers this a moment, studying his friend’s serene countenance, searching for a hint as to why she posed the question. _Not that I have much of an answer . . ._

 “I believe it’s because I never felt as if our bond was broken. Not traditionally, as Force bonds are when one is knighted—nor by death. I still have much to learn from him. And yet . . .”

A pause. There is a gap between the stones; the water rushes between his toes and Bant’s eyes close for a moment in pleasure as the current whispers its song across her skin. And then, again, the stones—the dark-streaked sones, so much like the one Qui-Gon had given him—again, the dance—

“And he still calls you ‘Padawan’,” Bant remarks softly. “And I wonder if it is because neither of you can let that go?” One hand flickers out, tousling his hair, humor stilling the uncertainty that would have tumbled from his lips.

 “You no longer have a braid that I can tangle.”

“Hm.”

They are silent again, each carried for a moment through the years, back to the many hours they spent together in the Room of a Thousand Fountains. Swimming idly, or lolling in the foliage, letting the banks of artificial light warm their skin and dry them. Speaking secrets that they would tell to no one. And how, always, Bant had so gently worked the tangles from his sodden braid and deftly woven it again . . .

“I was not always so skilled as to make it respectable,” she murmurs at last, apparently unsurprised that their thoughts have carried them to the same place. “You had much patience with me, my friend—more than most would have.”

“It was Qui-Gon who first taught me,” Obi-Wan smiles. “I didn’t have a clue. He—”

Something stills the words, briefly, locking them against his tongue where they linger bitterly, like medicine that can’t be swallowed. Not just the memory of the first time Qui-Gon had braided the lock of his hair kept long—

“. . . This is _our_ time together, friend.” The words are hushed, almost ashamed.

“And you think I mind, speaking of the one you love?” Bant’s eyes are the same silver as the horizon into which the river recedes, or from which the waters flow, and sudden relief washes over him (for now there need be, never need be, secrets . . .). “Speak, then, of what your heart wills. What brought you here? Why did you call for me?”

“Must there always be a reason?”

“No. To see you, always, is a joy.” A brief smile, and then Bant’s face grows serious again. “But . . . Obi-Wan, your nightmares . . . what you saw and still see of me . . .” The Mon Calamari frowns, her salmon skin flushing a darker shade.  “When Qui-Gon first called me, first reminded me of who I was, gathered me from Light, and when I first . . . saw you . . . there was a thread of shame that wrapped itself around your memories of us . . . that drew such a hideous specter into your dreams . . . not merely for my death . . . My friend. What troubles you? What remains unspoken?”

Obi-Wan is silent, picking at the words, worrying them like a scab. Is it not better to leave some memories alone than to risk drawing fresh blood?

And yet he can’t fully shake the image from his nightmare—the one that crops up in odd and unexpected places—

“When we were young,” he whispers. “And we were both grieving Tahl’s death . . . and I . . . Qui-Gon had become a stranger to me . . . We spent weeks at the Temple, doing nothing; you were wrapped in sorrow, Qui-Gon hardly looked at me . . . and all I wanted, then, was to make peace between us. I felt as if I’d lost him, and I couldn’t lose you, too. We grew back together, in time, but we never really spoke of it . . .

“And then the search for the Holocron . . . that darkness . . . that fear in your eyes, my friend, I will never forget. And then I felt it, too.”

“Grief and anger can take us to strange places,” acknowledges Bant slowly. “But you take the burden all for yourself, just as you did when you took the blame for not contacting the Council after Tahl’s disappearance. Qui-Gon ordered you to keep your silence, and yet I—I blamed you. I said you should have disobeyed him . . .”

Darkness, dusk, begins to slip across the river-sky, seeping through the mist and water, drawing them together until each has an arm about the other’s shoulder and they dare not, dare not, take another step, for the water has become like obsidian or fragile glass and if it breaks—

“We must go back. We must revisit what has been.”

Bant’s eyes shine through the darkness—as they always have—and as he clutches at her hand in protest, he knows well the look of compassion he would find upon her face. This is no test. No self-deprecating wandering of mind— _his_ mind. No . . . there is a purpose . . .

A Jedi must be unafraid to face the reality of what they’ve done.

At last, and warily, Obi-Wan nods, and the river world of peace is gone, vanished, swallowed by the darkness that is not so much sinister as necessary: night before the dawn, or the caves of Ilum with their visions, or the unknown Trials which every Padawan one day would face.

There are different trials, too, and perhaps this is one of them. Perhaps that is why he called her here.

* * *

" _Bant?” Yet so slight a whisper sounded far too loud, and Obi-Wan regretted it immediately. He pursed his lips, casting about through the shadows, searching for her only with his eyes: to reach out through the Force, to feel her in her grief and isolation, seemed . . . intrusive . . . even if his steps and searching betrayed him likewise._

_The Temple was still, filled with the peaceful energy of sleeping beings. The Room of a Thousand Fountains was fittingly dark; the artificial lights had been hushed and somehow, somehow, there was still the suggestion of moonlight and phantom stars playing across the water: from the smallest of still pools to the thundering waterfall._

_It was there that Obi-Wan found his friend. He was not sure what had drawn him here, except insomnia and restlessness: no amount of trying to quiet his mind had granted him peace, let alone sleep. But her silhouette at the bank of the fall was unmistakable; her energy greeted him in sharp undulations—anger and sorrow and guilt . . . and if he was not entirely sure what pulled him to this place, he knew then, at least, the_ why _._

_On silent feet he tread familiar paths—past Yoda’s favorite bench and through the foliage which did no more than whisper at his passing. When Bant did not turn, he wasn’t sure if he should speak or be still: he settled for somewhere in-between and sitting down beside her._

_Within a few moments she emerged from a sort of fractured meditation; her body shook, and when she raised her head her breath was sharp and shallow. At last she turned towards him, fixing him with a single silver eye; in the scattered darkness, he could scarcely make out her expression—but he didn’t need to. And at last, as if crossing a void, through the Force he felt her—more strongly than he ever had—her emotions unfiltered and raw. There was no peace. Nor was she solely full of rage and sorrow; he felt, despite the darkness, glimmers of gratitude and love . . ._

_“Obi-Wan.”_

_Her hand fumbled for his; he clasped it in both his own, startled at how cold she felt. Instinctively he shifted closer, hesitating just a moment before wrapping his arm around her shoulders, hoping his own bodily warmth might reach her, willing his strength to her through the Force._

_Something familiar and sinister hung in the air, and with a telltale twisting of his gut, Obi-Wan recognized it as echoes of the Dark Side—much as he’d felt when he’d come close to the Sith Holocron. He swallowed against a wave of nausea, wiping at the tears on his best friend’s cheek, clinging to the Light, drawing it about them like a shroud—for both their sakes. Bant was still, terribly still, for what felt like an age—_

_“I had a nightmare. About the mission to Korriban with Master Kit. They come and go, but sometimes . . . I cannot quiet them. I cannot let them pass through me, I cannot remain . . .” The Mon Calamari ducked her head. “I came here to meditate. To . . . cleanse myself.”_

_A sound of disgust and pain wrenched itself from her lips, although whether it was for the last sentiment or for the fact that it was decidedly un-Jedi, the young man didn’t know. “I feel . . . as if I will never walk untainted in the Light. As if I have been touched by a great Darkness and will always carry it around with me . . ._

_“The nightmares will not stop. I cannot make them stop. I am so afraid . . . And I shouldn’t be. We are Jedi, you and I . . .”_

And yet here we are, _Obi-Wan reflected idly. His first inclination was to pass along what Master Qui-Gon had told him, when his fear had nearly consumed him as they had taken up the chase for the Holocron. But it would not do much good at best, and at worst it would drive a wedge between them: hollow words . . . Bant herself had already admitted to trying to let the fear go, as with all emotion, but . . ._

_But here they were, the two of them._

_Bant had been his rock: had been, for many years, his conscience: his compassion: she had been, in a sense, the very center of his heart. To her he’d turned when his own instincts failed him, when his heart was heavy, when his mind swam with thoughts unbecoming of a Jedi. When he carried a secret he could tell no one, not even his Master—particularly not his Master. And if he had not told her_ that _secret outright, he had a feeling that she knew. He would trust her with more than his life. He would trust her, he realized, with whatever essence it was that made him_ who _he was—the essence of him that would one day become transformed into the Force—_

_Bowing his head that she need not raise her own, he met her gaze, offering a small and tender smile._

_“What did you dream?”_

_Perhaps she had already told her Master—as was proper—but telling it to a friend might yield a different abreaction—_

_How often had that been, for him? How often had he brought his troubles to both Qui-Gon and to Bant, and found each helpful in their way? Each had drawn out something different; each had brought a piece of the darkness into light._

_And silently, he hoped, he offered her the reassurance that he, too, had nightmares . . ._

_Bant shook her head, slowly; her body leaned into his own but her spirit seemed to be slipping away from him again._

_Beneath his fingertips, the tracks of her tears, Obi-Wan realized that her skin was alarmingly dry. Indeed, how strange it was that she would meditate here, by the water’s edge, when it was in the water that he knew she felt the most at ease. A sudden thought pulled him to his feet, pulled Bant; wrapped in his arms she followed, willingly, her eyes downcast—and well enough he understood the need, sometimes, to simply be told what to do: when the choice, the weight of the decision, was too much for one to bear._

_When their feet slipped against the banks of the pool beneath the waterfall, muddy and stone-riddled, latticed with the thousand roots of soft-creeping foliage, Obi-Wan shucked off his boots, laying his lightsaber beside them. Bant followed suit without a word, her motions deliberate—and if they were detached, there was no reluctance._

_As younglings they’d had little care for keeping their clothing dry, but pride had come with age—such as it was. Wryly Obi-Wan remembered trekking into the Council chambers on a summons with no notice, trying to look dignified beside his Master while water puddled at his feet—_

_But now it didn’t seem to matter._

_Bant’s hand brushed at his arm, the suckers on her palms cupping his shoulder. Still she did not speak, and Obi-Wan searched for words, reaching for the Force, almost begging guidance, acutely aware of how they stood, poised at the edge of the slippery bank, the ripples from the pool dancing in their eyes, the gentle laughing thunder of the waterfall loud against their ears._

_She had come here to cleanse herself (_ As if you are tainted, my friend . . . _). She had come here for fear that she would never fully walk in the Light (_ Do you know that _you_ have kept me in the Light, dear Bant? _). She had come here to be alone and yet—(_ You called me. Here I am. For once, let me return in kind all that you have done for me . . . _)_

_He stepped into the water, suppressing a shiver as its cold sluiced up his limbs. Keeping his gaze fixed only on his friend, her hand still locked in his, he stepped back, and back, until the bottom of the pool dropped off abruptly and he was treading water, until gravity pulled Bant to the tips of her feet, her webbed toes splayed in the unforgiving mud, as if hoping against hope to keep her balance._

_She could easily let go._

_But she didn’t._

* * *

_Their eyes met, briefly, before he drew a breath and pulled them down: down deep, deep until Bant’s salmon skin was dark and she seemed little more than a silhouette and only her eyes were the light. Reflexively he whispered a softer tempo to his heart, rationing the air in his lungs, willing his body to slow, to slow, to be still. Even with his training he could never hold his breath as long as she, for water was her element, but that didn’t matter now. He would stay with her as long as she needed . . ._

_She wrapped her arms around him, clinging to him, tangling their limbs until they were a living knot and her head was buried in his shoulder. He could feel her trembling; his hands worked over the ridges of her shoulders through her tunic, stroking her head; he gave her all his love, his gratitude: the glimmers that had broken through_ her _darkness, when she’d turned to face him—_

_Obi-Wan felt the living Force swirling around them—from the water to the mud to the clinging roots of the plants along the bank to the stones to they, themselves—and, little by little, Bant ceased trembling. He hadn’t realized that he’d closed his eyes until he felt her hand at his cheek, until he looked and saw her own silver eyes and in them, in them, there again he saw his dearest friend—_

_Nor had he realized that his body had been protesting his continued submersion; only when he went to kick his way back to the surface did he realize just how tenuously his consciousness was tethering him, spirit to flesh. Through the murky haze of the night-clad water he saw Bant purse her lips, then felt her grasp onto him with all the strength she had, pressing their bodies together as she swiftly and with utter grace propelled them to the surface._

* * *

_But they did not make for the shore of the pool. Treading water, gratefully drawing air into his lungs again, Obi-Wan was loathe to let her go—and Bant seemed in no hurry. He marveled at the press of her body—even through their sodden clothes, so different from his own—and wondered what she, with amphibious skin and suckers and ridges and tendrils, must think of him. Humans were so comparatively simple: bones and sinews and the broad planes of muscles and torso and limbs. Lectures and the Archives did not convey the depth and breadth of the living Force, as Qui-Gon often told him; indeed, how could life itself be so quantified and codified?_

_Holding her in the water she so loved, he felt the living Force acutely—_ This must be what Qui-Gon means . . . _—and it was enough to take his breath away. Excepting the bond with his Master, he didn’t know that one could feel so close to another being—_

_Her chin rested at his shoulder; her breathing was slow and deep, and as they’d risen together to the surface, he’d felt the last of the nauseating darkness leave her._

_And yet something remained._

* * *

_“You asked me what I dreamed.”_

_Bant was always soft-spoken, but even for her the words were low, lost almost to the waterfall. Reflexively she reached to toy with the sodden braid draped across his chest, letting it dance across her fingers._

_“My nightmares are of what I saw on Korriban, with Master Kit. Perhaps this is obvious; I have heard that the Dark Side can induce hallucinations—as can the Light.”_

_“The Caves of Ilum.”_

_“Yes.” Bant sighed. “My friend . . . You will not be angry with me?”_

_Through her tunic and the protective cartilage around her torso he could feel the pounding of her heart. He pressed his cheek against her own, tasting the salt of her skin, inhaling the warm and soothing smell of her. “How could I be angry with you?”_

How many times have _I_ been just that? _Guiltily the thought slipped through his mind, in an instant every moment when he’d snapped at her, when petty jealousy had sunk its claws in him . . . and what had she done, always, but return his ire with compassion, until the beast was gone?_

_“I will not be angry,” he repeated slowly. “Bant . . .”_

_“It was_ you _I saw on Korriban.” Bant’s voice gained strength as she began to speak in earnest, the words pouring from her lips—and Obi-Wan understood, abruptly, that if he had kept his own secret, in this there was hers. “The Dark Side drew all of the anger that I thought I’d released into the Force—all the anger at Master Tahl’s death—and the part I was so sure you’d played . . ._

_“You cannot know what it is to lose your Master—I pray you never do . . ._

_“And then before me, as my rage consumed me, there you were, a specter, and I . . . I . . .”_

_A shudder wracked her; Obi-Wan began to trace small circles at her temples, reverting at last to the hollow platitudes that he knew she didn’t need. “What happened on Korriban wasn’t real. Bant, whatever you did—it isn’t—”_

_“But I_ killed _you!” A desperate cry, trailing to a whimper. “Over and over again. I could not control my anger, and every time I struck you down, whichever way I turned, there you were again, tormenting me.” A sharp, gasping breath, no more, no chance for him to interject before—_

 _“And then Master Kit and I left the tomb we’d been searching and moved on to the next and then—and then—when I saw you next . . . you were with Qui-Gon . . . And it wasn’t just that you were_ with _him—”_

Oh. _Heat rose to his cheeks, Bant’s emphasis striking the point home._. . . Oh.

 _“The Darkness whispered that you would never love me. And the terrible thing about this, friend, is that it_ is true _. That is not a hallucination, or a perversion of the Dark Side. It is truth. You do not love me as you love Qui-Gon, nor could you. I know this. For years, I have known it.”_

Bant.

_He meant to speak her name, but something had seized in his throat and tangled his tongue and the word just wouldn’t come._

_“And yet, for years, I have loved you.”_

* * *

_They stumbled to the shore at last, startled at the weakness in their limbs; slipping on the muddy bank, Obi-Wan and Bant dropped to their knees, shaking, supporting one another as the wounded might. And perhaps well they were—_

_And if their hearts had been heavy with nightmares, they’d forgotten the power of the Dark Side to sap their bodily strength—_

_Soon enough they’d lain themselves down in the foliage, exhausted, accepting the futility of finding their feet with haste. Each had slid an arm beneath the other’s head, that they need not press their cheeks against the mud; Obi-Wan absently stroked his friend’s shoulder and the tips of Bant’s webbed fingers began to comb through his Padawan’s braid._

_But if his friend had let go of the darkness—for the moment—something still twisted in his gut. Shame, of course, and guilt, that he had caused her so much pain . . . Celibacy was part and parcel of their oath; even if he returned her feelings, it could never be . . . But the truth of it rang hollow, seeing the remnants of sorrow still reflected in her eyes . . . not unlike a mirror: how often had he stared into his reflection in the pool beside the waterfall and seen the same? When not only his body, with its base passions, but his very heart and head had warred with sacred duty and morality? How could he trust his feelings, as Yoda so often instructed, when_ that _was what his feelings gave?_

_Bant shifted, studying his face, understanding with her uncanny empathy what thoughts were running through his mind._

_“We are not so different,” she murmured slowly._

_“No.”_

_And even as Obi-Wan felt the darkness still roiling within his gut, even as he knew that they should part ways and meditate in solitude, to re-center themselves, he felt the living Force binding them together in a way that he scarcely understood. Whatever had been wrought between them in the water still tethered them—light, warmth, solace, comfort—_

_But for what? To what ends? Means_ were _ends . . ._

 _They’d been taught since the onset of adolescence that the solitary satiating of one’s desires was permissible, as was caring for any of the body’s needs for nourishment and sleep. And if_ that _was the strange tension between them now—struck unto her by his nearness and warmth and their bodies intertwined; struck unto him by his own thoughts, loosed from reluctant shackles, straying towards his Master—then—_

Bant. Search your feelings. Something’s wrong. We shouldn’t be here—not like this . . .

_“Obi-Wan . . . ?” Bant’s hand had shifted from untangling the knots from his braid to cupping his cheek. And he realized that she was as worried as he: her voice shook, and tears gleamed in her eyes. They were now too fragile to misstep. “The Dark Side can cloud everything . . . and yet . . . what I feel now, with you, is the living Force. Is Light . . .”_

_Obi-Wan reluctantly inclined his head. That much was true. He thought, he hoped. Or was it just their bodies and minds playing tricks on them? The reverberations of loss and loneliness, amplified—for the path to the Dark Side was an easy one indeed—and could even the carnal comforts forbidden to them not be so disguised?_

_He didn’t know. And if Bant could have let go his hand before he pulled her into the water, now he could let go of her, could stand, could walk away._

_But he could not leave her alone._

_Because he_ did _love her, even if she didn’t think so, and even if wasn’t how he loved Qui-Gon. And he remembered how she spoke of his love for Cerasi, so matter-of-factly, and how she did not hold it against him (although he couldn’t have explained what kind of love it was). Nor did she hold against him the accusation, born from unbridled frustration, that she was hoping to become Qui-Gon’s apprentice in his stead—that she was going to take his Master from him when his own pride and arrogance had torn them apart—_

_He had long since buried those beasts, just as he’d sought to bury his love for Qui-Gon. But seeing the latter fall in love with Tahl had torn open the wound; her death had been a twisted blade; Qui-Gon’s dance with the Dark Side and Bant’s anger had been prodigious grains of salt—_

_And then Lundi and the Holocron and the sheer_ power _of the Dark Side—_

_“Bant.”_

_But nothing except her name would come, and for a long time they lay together, entwined, breathing deeply, searching for the Light to wrap around each other: ropes to throw, down into the abyss._

My friend, I’m so sorry. For everything. Forgive me . . .

_Their eyes met, silver and cerulean, and each found then that there was nothing they knew how to say._

* * *

_Their motions were carefully measured, and unspoken was the truth that there were neither pretenses nor foolish hopes. It was no different than any of the myriad acts of kindness they performed for one another: sweets slipped from the kitchens between classes, exchanged in the brushing of hands; a flower-woven necklace; a smile, a word, a hug. Strong fingers to work the knots from each other’s muscles after a hard training session, or a tender touch, dabbing bacta against a laser burn. A shoulder to weep on and empathetic ears to hear every secret, and hearts big enough to hold them all._

* * *

_She smelled of the seas of innumerable worlds and tasted of salt as he pressed his cheek against hers, as his lips brushed against her skin in something that wasn’t quite a kiss. Through still-sodden clothing his hands found the sacred places of her body amidst cartilage and flesh and bone, catching a rhythm—ageless and universal—and when her breath caught in a grateful hum of rapture, he knew that to share this with her was a blessing._

* * *

_He kept his eyes on hers,_ only _on hers, as her webbed hands, with such gentle curiosity, explored him in reciprocity: as his youthful, hungry body responded to her touch—to what was being offered—to what he’d so long denied himself, at his own hand. He smiled, assuring her with all he could offer that this moment was between them—just them. He pushed the thought of his Master from his mind, focusing solely on the sensation of her touch, accepting this pleasure as he’d been taught to accept any sensation or experience, be it pleasure or pain: a good meal, fresh air and the softness of sleep at the end of a day—or great hunger, fatigue, grave bodily harm—_

_And he wondered, idly, if this distance wasn’t sacrilege._

* * *

_And in the end, the greatest gift and apology, the seal to what would never be, was her name against his lips._

* * *

_Fatigue spread itself like a blanket across their bodies; the air had dried them but left them cold, and they huddled together for warmth, for light, each wrapped in the other’s arms, drifting at last into an uneasy sleep. And if sleeplessness and nightmares had brought them here, here, too, was where they at last were able to find some measure of peace._

_And such, at last, in the haze of an artificial dawn, was how their Masters found them._

* * *

And just as quickly they are cast through darkness, slipping on the unseen stones, the fragile glass of the river grown still and the horizons struck to obsidian depths. The Room of a Thousand Fountains has vanished, as memories so often do, and the world of the river is where they find themselves again.

Bant’s hand finds Obi-Wan’s—has she ever let it go? She feels no shame—or, at least, she has not carried it as he . . . If there is guilt, then it’s _his_ self-created burden at best, and something twisted by the Dark Side at worst. Shakily he draws a breath, willing the waters to brighten, willing an unseen light to gather at the edges of the horizon, willing again this meeting place, this secret world, to become the refuge once it was.

“Why is this memory shrouded in such darkness?” the Mon Calamari whispers finally. “Why is it twisted in your nightmares?”

And at Obi-Wan’s tongue dance thousands of reasons: the guilt he’d felt when he realized that his body’s reactions were solely because of the cumulation of his self-denial—not her touch—and yet the pleasure he’d given her was, for him, an utterly sterile act. There was no mutual desire. And, too, the shame that if his vows were broken it wasn’t with— It wasn’t how it was supposed to be.

“Did I hurt you?” he manages at last, letting her hands catch his trembling, containing it. “That is what I fear most of all, my friend. That I was selfish, that our closeness was born out of desperation or desires that we didn’t understand. That I . . . that we . . . both should have known better. That I did you wrong . . .”

“Could I not say the same?”

“But you—you felt that way—and I . . .” Obi-Wan stares at her, helpless, feeling like words will never be enough to express his sorrow, the deep-seeded self-assurance that something wasn’t right. “Shouldn’t we have felt the same?”

“Perhaps. But I knew you did not feel for me as I for you, and yet _I_ acted as I did.” Bant smiles gently, sadly. “Stop taking the whole burden for yourself, my friend. If there was fault, it was both of ours. We were young . . . We’d sworn ourselves to the Order, and in so doing given up so much of what makes life, life, for countless beings. We were so fragile in that moment—we needed each other—and it so happened that such was the rhythm between us.”

“We shouldn’t have.”

“Likely not.”

“ _No_. We _shouldn’t_ have.” Obi-Wan sets his jaw, startled at his vehemence.

“But does that make it less? Is that sole ‘shouldn’t’ enough Darkness to distill the Light?”

“You sound like Master Qui-Gon.” Love and frustration slip between the words, softening his own rigidity.

Bant tilts back her head, her laughter catching somewhere in his very soul, and then her face grows serious again. “My friend. You gave me a parting gift that night—one I’d neither asked for nor would ever expect—the last offering I gave to my bodily love for you. But that was all. It need not have been more than it was, nor should it have. And if it has caused you such misery . . .”

Her hand tightens against her own; there is a pleading thread throughout her voice which almost stills his breath. “My friend, forgive me.”

He wants desperately to say there is nothing to forgive . . . and almost smiles at the irony; how frantic is he to hear the same from her? How much does he want to believe it?

They are silent for a moment, each staring out towards the light-gathering horizon.

“Do you remember when our Masters found us in the morning?”

Obi-Wan nods absently, half-dancing away from the recollection of waking up to see Qui-Gon crouched beside him, Bant’s body still tangled in his arms. “Thank goodness they knew we were close friends and didn’t otherwise suspect . . . I was terrified that they’d . . . sense something.”

The Mon Calamari tilts her head, perplexed. “But they did.”

Reflexively his free hand works through his hair, trailing to his beard, blinking at her with troubled incredulity. _Qui-Gon said nothing . . . He helped me to my feet, rebraided my hair, then led me to a practice room, to run through our daily_ katas _before breakfast . . ._

_But . . ._

Bant and Master Kit had stayed behind . . .

That Qui-Gon knew once would have struck a shattering chord, but now Obi-Wan absorbs the knowledge with little more than a tug of uncertainty, another thread of regret in the knot which he knows his Master will help him untangle in due time.

“Shall I tell you what Master Kit told me?”

Again the refrain: _Qui-Gon said nothing . . ._

_(If he had, would I still carry this?)_

“He spoke of the Code, and had me recite the tenets, explaining each in great detail . . . How we are called to compassion and mercy; how we are called to a love greater and deeper than most beings will know—but love nonetheless. He spoke to me, at first, almost as a youngling, having me detail the binding ethics of our Order—everything from dress to conduct. And, yes . . . why relations are forbidden.”

Bant pauses, her silver gaze the same hue as the horizon.

“And then he spoke of attachments, asking me if I loved you. I said you were my dearest friend . . . but that wasn’t what he wanted. He took me by the shoulders, stared straight into my eyes, and asked if I feared to lose you. Would I sacrifice your life if it meant the success of a dire mission? If it meant the end of a war? If it meant the lives of ten innocents? Of one?

“What was I afraid to lose?”

Bant draws a steady breath, glancing once in his direction, letting the glow of some unseen dawn play against her salmon skin.

“I don’t know if he knew what I had seen on Korriban, or if he was consumed with his own struggle. No—he must have known—he would not have forsaken me to face his own hallucinations . . . When he bade me look at him, I saw so much pain and grief, and it was then as if the Force opened itself to me, to the future, giving me a glimpse of what was to be . . . I did not understand it then . . .”

“What did you see?”

But Bant shakes her head slowly, for a moment somewhere else entirely—somewhere he can’t reach. “It has been,” she answers finally. “It is.

“I did not answer his question about fear right away, of course . . . We sat together in meditation, and although he never demanded it, through the Force I told him everything . . . letting go of everything I’d held onto over the years . . . my love for you . . . and there I swore that I was not afraid to lose you, and that what had happened would never be again. There is mercy in the Code, there is compassion . . .

“Master Kit told me that he would not bring it before the Council, as long as I proved to him that my words and intentions were true.”

Bant turns to him again, pressing her hand against his chest. “Both of us have learned to live with hearts that are at once full and empty, friend.”

Her webbed fingers shift, shaping themselves around the stone resting there against his chest, always, in the pocket he’s clumsily sewn onto the tunic of Owen’s father. Instinctively he covers her hand with his own, catching tendrils from the Force-sensitive stone passing through her body to his own—but of course she, too, is the Light . . .

“There is nothing to forgive,” she whispers finally. “Not on my account.”

He wraps her in his arms, breathing in the smell of her, so familiar, one of the earliest memories he holds—when they were such tiny younglings, and he himself two years older, and she—and she—so very small—

“Nor mine,” he manages.

“Then let us leave it in peace, my friend. What has been, has been. Let it be as the water flowing beneath our feet—and here, here we are, the two of us, still standing on the stones.”

Obi-Wan smiles into the tunic of his dearest friend, damp with the mist from the river, leaving a hint of the salt from her skin against his lips. Around them the sky bursts into soft-edged, muted day—silver, like her eyes—

* * *

And slowly Obi-Wan comes back to himself, consciousness trickling into his body: aware of his breathing and the staccato of his heart, the ever-present moisture of sweat at his brow, pooled in the small of his back. At his lips he tastes—still—salt, for on his cheeks are the dried tracks of tears.

* * *

_His dreams have not been kind. The time spent in meditation with Bant has rekindled something else, and now he feels within him the hollow, stabbing agony that had been her death; the Force, then, had been nothing but a roiling disturbance as the Jedi were slaughtered—but, too, there had been hers: subtle, sharp-edged eddies._

_How savagely poetic, that when he’d felt it had been when he and Boga, the poor faithful beast, had plunged from the blasted cliffside into stagnant, watered depths. And how he’d paused a moment, rationing the breath all but stolen from his lungs, as her death struck him more sharply than breaking the surface of the pool bewildered him . . ._

_And so, dream-caught, sleep-snared during  the heat of Tattooine's day, he has seen how she became one with the Force:_ how _, exactly, he does not know—but the dark corners of his mind find ways enough. Again and again he watches her fall to her knees, watches her body vanish in a spray of blood and flash of bone, watches the life fade from her brilliant silver eyes in countless, gruesome ways._

_But when her twisted specter leers at him and the guilt of what all was never said between them in life rushes towards him, Obi-Wan simply l_ _ets the guilt wash through him; water carried by a current: nothing more. And for the first time in years, almost since he can remember, he can close his eyes and, with a smile, turn away._

* * *

_Waiting there, with arms outheld, he finds his Master._

* * *

_Perhaps, once, the ship thrumming about them would have carried them across the stars to a distant world, to a mission, to a planet in dire need of peace. Or perhaps it would have born them to Coruscant, to the Temple, to the one place a Jedi could near enough call home._

_Now it is merely a conveyance through a dream, no more, and the voices which filter through the walls are simply snippets of every language that Obi-Wan has ever heard. The flickers, as if the life-energies of beings, are but memories . . ._

_They sit together on a bunk which amounts to little more than a pallet on the floor, half-caught in a trance, the thrum of the ship giving cadence to their breath. Obi-Wan’s fingers deftly card through his Master’s hair, plaiting and re-weaving a braid at his temple, the motions only half-forgotten. He does not think about how the last time he did this was for Anakin . . ._

_He remembers, instead, the morning that the Council agreed to Qui-Gon’s accepting him as Padawan . . . and how they had sat together in a side-chamber, darkened and silent and still, deep in meditation: forging the bond through the Force that would tie them together more closely than any other attachment a Jedi could have._

_Of course, growing to truly know and trust each other would take years . . ._

_But he will never forget that moment when he had first felt the subtle, tentative brushing of his Master’s mind against his own. At the cusp of thirteen, it had sent a charge through him that only upon waking from the first doomed dream would he recognize for what it was . . ._

_And then, and then, how Qui-Gon had so gently combed out the knots of the last lock left long, his large fingers nimble and sure . . ._

<How could you love me so swiftly?>

_Qui-Gon’s breath is warm against his hands; Obi-Wan knows well he doesn’t need to breathe, ostensibly, but it’s such a subtle gift that he doesn’t mind. He considers this a moment, letting his Master’s silver-copper hair run through his fingers, softer than silk._

<I admired you. I suppose nearly every Padawan hero-worships their Master at some point.> _A frown croses his face, shadows pooling beneath his eyes as he ducks his head._ <Master, why do you presume to call it love? I was an adolescent . . . >

<Because you took such pains to purge yourself of your physical reality—and need I remind you that nowhere in the Code is there provision for such actions. To uphold your vows of celibacy, yes—but to deny yourself, to yourself? At that age, one may as well demand that a being neither eats nor sleeps.> _Qui-Gon’s tone slips into a pained and almost-scolding key._ <Have I not said that it was your guilt, your shame, which first alerted me to what you felt for me? My Padawan, if it were merely lust—and that, I assume, is at the heart of your question—well enough I’d have known. Lust is to the Dark Side like the iridescent sheen on oil.>

 _Obi-Wan’s fingers at last falter in their rhythm; Qui-Gon’s large hands reach up, cradling his own, dropping them from the half-woven braid to press against his chest. They are silent, and silent in such a way that the former knows his Master is waiting for him to speak. Perhaps he is already aware of what has been in his recent sojourn with Bant; they are, after all, two specks of light cast from the same source—and when not with him, the source is what they_ are.

<How did you and Master Kit know where to look for us?> _An easier thing it is to deflect from the real meaning behind Qui-Gon’s words—the truth within them, anything but subtle, is something he’d rather not yet face._

_His Master sighs, running his thumbs over Obi-Wan’s scarred knuckles. He will not hide the truth from his Padawan—but this subject is still something they dance around, and none-too-skillfully. How strange it is, that in this liminal world they have come to know each other, flesh and spirit, and yet—_

<You and Bant . . . woke us up. Not that we felt what you felt, of course—no, don’t misunderstand me, Padawan; please, don’t speak just yet . . . I can see a thousand words of apology at your lips and there is nothing you need pardon for.

<No . . . your deep love for one another . . . your calling on the Light to chase away what lingered of the Dark in each of you. _That_ is what woke us. Come dawn, we found the two of you.>

<Master . . . why did you not—?>

<Say something?> _Qui-Gon shifts, leaning back against the durasteel wall, willing Obi-Wan to scoot closer, willing him to lay his head against Qui-Gon’s broad and sturdy shoulder because there has been far too much distance between them._

_Absently he studies that careworn face, so dear and familiar and changed—but every so often he finds, still, in those blue eyes the spark of the young man—willing and selfless and headstrong and wise—_

<I did not speak to you as Kit to Bant because . . .> _Qui-Gon pauses, choosing his words carefully. Within his Padawan he feels something instinctively tangling: a reflexive urge to shield himself, to pull away._ <She had a different lesson to learn, an important one—but personal. There was no single, universal thing to be taken from that situation. And I knew that to broach the subject would do far more harm than good, given how much you agonized already . . .

<There was no lesson there—at least not one that _I_ could impart. Not then. You needed _this_ , my young Padawan—what happened with Bant . . . when you were younglings, yes, but also in meditation today.>

<Master.> _Obi-Wan lifts his head enough to study Qui-Gon’s visage, sharp-shadowed in halogen light. And then he finds that he can say no more. The lesson was in carrying the burden, and learning how, at last, to lay it down._

 _Eventually:_ <Bant said that we have hearts both empty and full.>

<To empty oneself, not merely in service of the Code but to the will of the Force, was often seen as being the heart of what it was—what it _is_ —to be a Jedi.> _Qui-Gon nods, smiling down at Obi-Wan’s furrowed brow._ <To empty oneself to love—to unconditional compassion for all living things . . . that is a Jedi’s calling. To that, perhaps, the Council would agree.>

<That is when I have always felt closest to the Force, Master. When I have . . . let go of myself. Completely. Not lost myself. Just . . . > _Obi-Wan gestures helplessly, struggling to articulate the moments when he had felt, even in his bodily form, as if he and the Force and all that was around him were one . . . and then realizes the irony. This, if anything, he need not explain: not to the man who had been the first to return: for Light again to wrap itself in flesh and form . . ._

<Somehow, that’s when I’ve been myself the most.>

 _Qui-Gon is silent for a long time, and when the silence grows heavy Obi-Wan reaches up to untangle the half-finished braid at his Master’s temple, finding solace in the rhythm of his fingers, in the rise and fall of Qui-Gon’s chest, the steady beating of his heart. The nearness, the warmth, the familiar planes and curvatures of their bodies strikes a desire that catches their breaths, but of equal-measured pleasure is the need simply to be_ held _. . . One man of flesh and blood, the other of spirit and Light, each wrapped in the other’s arms. There will be other days and nights and dreams for making love._

_These things are not illusions, Obi-Wan knows well—nor are they entirely reality—but it doesn’t matter. The mysteries, in time, he will come to understand, for he has Qui-Gon to show him the way._

**Author's Note:**

> Credit where much credit is due to Matthew Stover's novelization of _Revenge of the Sith_. He does such a beautiful job with the story, but his characterization of Obi-Wan is particularly striking. Of note as it relates to this little fic of mine are the passages where he describes Obi-Wan being who he is--which amounts to both being himself and, perhaps paradoxically, letting go of himself and surrendering completely to the will of the Force.


End file.
